


Vanilla is the New Punk

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, And we know who that belongs to, Crushes, First Dates, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, High School, High School Student Castiel, High School Student Dean, M/M, Makeover, Panties Kink mention, Punk Castiel, Punk Dean, Punk Nick/Lucifer, Some Cursing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-24 00:05:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10730100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: He braces himself against the sink and breathes in—as deep as he can, anyway, with the black choker around his neck. Then he laughs nervously to himself. At least he’s not vanilla anymore. But he’s not quite chocolate, either. He’s like that off-brand that’s sold only at participating stores.





	Vanilla is the New Punk

Vanilla. It's light, but not too light. Sweet, but not too sweet. Creamy, but not too creamy. The perfect balance between good and stomachaches.  

In other words, vanilla is safe. And safe is good. Just like a white, button-down blouse and a pair of slacks with black shoes is safe. 

But safe isn't enough when trying to impress a Cookie Dough and Rocky Road hybrid dripping chocolate sauce that acts as a slide for the mini Hershey's kisses drizzled on top.

"Wouldn't that cause a chemical reaction?"

Castiel blinks away the fragments of his thoughts. They shatter like glass behind his eyes as he says, dumbly, "What?"

Dean's eyebrows taper, creating a roof for his painted emerald eyes, and his plush, pink mouth parts before he gestures to the beakers in front of them again. "Yeast and hydrogen peroxide. Aren't they, like, Gollums and Hobbits?"

"I, um... you mean is hydrogen peroxide a catalyst for yeast?"

Behind him, he hears the familiar snicker that belongs to his older brother, Nick—or, as he likes to be called, Luci, short for—you guessed it—Lucifer. Cas rolls his eyes. Ever since he’s adopted the good word of the Devil, Luci’s dark blonde hair that used to be parted to the side’s been sticking up like a frazzled Chia Pet, his blue eyes have been like two full moons behind a fraction of eclipses, his clothes have more patches on them than a retiring smoker, and—okay, that’s a severed tongue he’s sticking out at him. That’s new.

"Isn't that what I said?" Dean asks.

Cas clears his throat when he realizes Dean is still gaping at him through eyes that hold miles of forestry Cas could get lost in—and has, ”Well, technically, the One Ring was the catalyst for Hobbits that turned them _into_  Gollum."

Dean, his table partner, licks his lips, wetting the metallic inner tube clamped around his bottom lip and then there’s that smile, the one that’s half-cocked, teasing. Then he leans forward, his leather jacket crinkling and the mouth of his stretched ACDC shirt opening, exposing some of a much larger green pentagram tattoo touching his freckled collarbone. He smells like mint gum and aftershave. ”Talk nerdy to me, Cas."

Cas's frowns a bit. He knows Dean's joking, but that's the problem with Cas: He'll never get a real reaction from Dean. As long as he’s known him this semester, Dean’s went on dates with a few girls, and even a couple guys, nothing serious—his sails never dropping for Cas, though. It’s proof that vanilla and chocolate couldn't be farther away. And pretty much everyone prefers chocolate over vanilla. 

"They do," he answers, mustering the courage to face Dean again. “Cause a reaction, I mean. Those two chemicals aren’t meant to mix.”

Dean makes a clicking sound with his cheeks as he points at Cas. "I was hoping you'd say that."

"No, wait, Dean—!"

But the damage is already done after Dean pours in the hydrogen peroxide. Sooner than later, the beaker overflows with foamy yeast.

It’s the color of vanilla. 

**

His phone pings on the way to room one-forty. Not that that alone comes as a surprise. Cas’s friend Charlie had insisted Cas join Instagram, and now every time she sends him a post—likely from Mr. Devereaux’s computer class, because Cas didn’t even know the words outrageously and boring could be paired together to describe something until he had his first period class—his phone goes wild.

But it’s not another notification from Charlie. It’s a text from Dean: _Hey, where r u?_

Cas narrows his eyes at the screen before he starts typing back: _…same place you’re going._

 _I highly doubt that,_ is the text he receives less than a minute later, _go down the hall._

Cas quirks his head.  Strange request. But he trusts Dean more than most high school guys, so he heads down the corridor until he reaches the glass exit. Cas gapes when he sees it, just below the steps that reach the double doors. He pushes his way outside and heads halfway down the steps to exclaim, “ _Seriously?!”_

“I know,” Dean concedes from his motorcycle, which is idling on the curb. Then: “I would’ve had my dad’s ’67 Chevy today, but he got called in for a later shift.”

Dean’s father is a nurse at the local hospital. He described it to Cas once as a family business, being in the helping profession, because Dean’s younger brother Sam is going into occupational therapy and mental health, and Dean’s going to enroll in fire academy next year following graduation.

“Dean,” Cas says, dropping his head. “You’re skipping detention?”

“Well, I would’ve by now, but I wanted to be a gentleman and offer you a ride home,” he says, extending a black helmet.

Cas scoffs, “Are you crazy?”

“You’re right,” Dean says, throwing up his arms before letting it fall on his handlebar, as if he just thought of something groundbreaking: “We should grab a bite at Benny’s.”

Cas opens his mouth, then closes it just as quick as his heart picks up in his chest. Did Dean just ask him on a date? Like, a  _real_ date? With burgers and fries and milkshakes and Dean laughing at something really stupid Cas says, and they just get so caught up in talking, their only option is to-go bags, but they scarf down the rest on the way home, and Cas is worried about onion breath, but Dean ordered onions too, so they both just end up fucking it and leaning into—

Not that he’s fantasized about that before.

Well, not _just_ that, anyway.

Even so, his superego staples to the step he’s on as he finally manages to exclaim, “We can’t skip detention!”

“Why not? Mr. Turner’s always a no-show. How would he know?” Dean yells as he revs his engine. “C’mon, do you  _really_ wanna sit in a dimly-lit classroom that smells like weed and wasted potential?”

“Dean, you do realize _we’re_ part of that group.”

“But we don’t _have_ to be,” Dean says, emphasizing his point by thrusting out the helmet again.

Cas trades glances between the weather-beaten infrastructure with plain, gridded windows to the bowlegged beauty known as Dean, specifically _his_ windows—because of the saying with the eyes and the windows—and finds himself feeling like Jay Gatsby standing on the dock and having his hopes and dreams laid out for him in a blinding green light, only, there are two of them.

Then he descends the stairs.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Dean proclaims. Cas takes the helmet and puts it on before sliding behind Dean. Tentatively, because _Dean’s backside is mere inches from his front_ , Cas places his around Dean’s sides. Again, safe. It’s not his hips, per say, when it’s his warm leather jacket that’s between his fingers. That’s until Dean instructs him to hold on tighter with a hands-on demonstration by blindly, but gently reaching behind until he has Cas’s left hand in his grasp, then proceeds to wrap it around his midriff.

Cas takes his right hand and does the same before they tear off down the road.

Benny’s Diner is five minutes out, but it feels like a whole school period.

**

“I need your help.”

Luci doesn’t bother looking up from his book with another questionable red symbol plastered on the front as Cas storms into his room. “I take it the date went well,” he responds from his bed. He has a bowl next to him of what look like chocolate-coated strawberries that he occasionally picks from and places in his mouth. Today’s lipstick color is black, which means tomorrow will likely be black or a variation of it.

Cas’s sapphire eyes go wide. “Who told you?”

“No one,” he says, shrugging. “You weren’t in detention, and the way that Winchester guy was making eyes at you, I figured… huh.”

“What?” Cas asks, because at that conjecture of thoughts, Luci looks up at the ceiling, then at Cas.

“Nothing. I just never thought I’d say that in regards to my saint of a little brother.”

“It wasn’t a date—we didn’t, he’s—” Cas blows through his nose and folds his arms over his stomach. “Are you going to help me or not?”

It’s not a very punk rock simile, but nothing better describes the curve of Luci’s lips better than the Cheshire cat from _Alice in Wonderland._

 

_The Next Day_

 

Cas adjusts his collar in the mirror again. Although, the collar is the least of his problems when he looks like he’s been puked on by Sid Vicious. His dark brown hair, now a bright blue, is spiked at an angle. His eyebrows are filled in more with charcoal-colored eyeliner, his stubble’s a little more grown out—which, at this point in his life, just looks like Play-Doh stuck inside a cheese grinder, but it’s still unfamiliar. His black shirt sleeves are ripped, exposing his surprisingly tanned biceps, and his patched jeans are borrowed from Luci, along with the pair of shiny combat boots.

He braces himself against the sink and breathes in—as deep as he can, anyway, with the black choker around his neck. Then he laughs nervously to himself. At least he’s not vanilla anymore. But he’s not quite chocolate, either. He’s like that off-brand that’s sold only at participating stores.

But he has to do this, so he takes another breath before heading out of the bathroom and down the hall. Morning period’s already over, so people are filing in and out of classes around him, tossing odd glances in Cas’s direction. Cas does his best to ignore them in favor of the guy closing his locker and heading in his direction. With any luck, Cas will successfully be able to pull the cliché high school bump.

But Cas’s boots are so large, they nearly trip Dean as they “run into” each other. Cas fumbles with an apology as he steadies Dean by the shoulders.

Dean’s rendered speechless for a moment as his dancing eyes drink in the new Cas.

“Hello, Dean.”

“I’m—you… uh,” Dean says, laughing as he rubs his neck. There must be a reset button back there somewhere, because Dean starts over. “Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting... what brought this on?”

Cas steels himself by biting his lip—before the words can tumble out without a mental proofread. Once he’s satisfied, he says, “I like you. A lot.”

“I like you, too.”

Cas’s mouth drops, because _what?_ “Really?”

“Yes, really. I just haven’t had the courage to ask you out. I mean, until yesterday with the burgers offer…”

“That was a date?” Cas clarifies, replying yesterday afternoon in his head.

It wasn’t anything like his not-fantasy—it was better. They both ordered a bacon cheeseburger with fries, but Cas was so nervous to actually be hanging out with Dean outside of school, he barely touched his food, so Dean swapped their plates—Dean’s already vacant plate for Cas’s practically untouched one. Cas had no issue with it when it meant getting to watch Dean’s face become a pool for ketchup and mustard. They must have used twenty napkins with the mess Dean made.

And yes, milkshakes were involved, and Dean made Cas laugh so hard at one point, milk came out of his nose.

“Yeah,” Dean laughs, stepping closer, “of course it was. That’s, like, my place. I know it’s a hole-in-the-wall kind of deal, but I don’t take anyone there unless I mean business. Sorry for taking so long to nut up.”

“No, no, it’s not you… it’s me,” Cas says, cringing as he says the cliché line. “I just thought maybe if I changed the way I look… I don’t know, it’s dumb, and it was a spontaneous thing. I know I’m not cool, or anything, and this outfit probably doesn’t help.”

“No, you’re not,” Dean says. Cas tries angling his head to the ground, but Dean softly lifts his chin with his calloused hands. "You’re _better._ You’re better because you’re kind and smart and funny and really, _really_ fucking attractive. And okay, you’re a little bit nerdy, but so am I, so are most people, but you don’t try to hide it. From where I’m standing, that’s passion, and you breathe it—and that’s totally cool.”

Cas’s lips quirk up a bit. “You really mean that?”

Dean nods, letting his hand fall to his side, which Cas immediately feels the loss of. “And who knows, maybe you’re, like, totally hardcore in the bedroom, or something. Hell, that’s where I get _my_ courage. I could never walk out of the house in pink, satiny pant…” Dean closes his eyes as a blush fills his freckled cheeks. Cas bites back a smile. “My point is, this punk thing, if you wanna call it that, is my style—not my  _life_ style. Just like you. You don't try to stand out, you know? You just are.  Everyone at this school is so... I don't know... extreme."

"It  _is_ high school," Cas adds, blushing as he nudges Dean's arm playfully, "and what about you, Ponyboy?"

"What? This?" Dean asks ever so innocently. "This is more at Danny Zuko's speed. You know, still hardcore, but in a family-friendly kind of way."

"Mmhmm. Is Rhonda Hurley family-friendly?"

Dean cocks his head. "What? How do you—?"

"She may have posted a picture of you in those very same pink, satiny panties on social media."

"So that's why they were laughing at me when they passed… eh, oh well."

"Seriously?" Cas scoffs, "Wow, with that attitude, you really are punk rock.”

"I'm sure it was a lovely picture of my almost bare ass surrounded by sparkly, lacy flowers, but they were comfortable,” Dean says. “Besides, we're only here for one more year. By then, the vultures will have moved onto another corpse to pick at."

"I never saw the picture," Cas says, stifling a laugh, "She took it down after everyone had already saved it. I just heard about it through the grapevine."

"Cas," Dean teases, pulling him closer with a hand on his waist, but leaving just enough space between them to drive him mad, "You may be more of a bad boy than I took you for." 

"Well, that  _is_ a chain in my pocket," Cas says, biting his lip. "It’s stuck inside, I can't get it out.”

Dean just smiles and uses that as leverage to reach into Cas's pocket, yank out the stubborn chain, and pull Cas closer until he's landed safety on his lips.

Vanilla has never tasted so good.


End file.
